


Dyad

by justrebelscum



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Bad Shit Happens, Dark Shit Happens Ok Be Prepared, F/M, Force Bond, Force Sensitivity, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Jedi, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Sith, Slow Burn, Smut, Star Wars AU, Very Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justrebelscum/pseuds/justrebelscum
Summary: You grew up with Ben Solo and the Resistance. You thought he died ten years ago. Then, you are captured by Kylo Ren. When he discovers you are Force sensitive, he seeks to train you and turn you to the Dark Side, but you are not going down without a fight. And you are not leaving without Ben Solo.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Dyad

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS for sexual assault, attempted sexual assault, torture, psychological torture, manipulation, dubious consent, rough (consensual) sex, and general sociopathic behavior. Reminder that while it is totally ok to enjoy this sort of thing in a safe controlled consensual environment, none of this behavior is anywhere near ok in real life. Take care of yourselves, lovelies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You awaken in the custody of the First Order. They seek the location of an artifact of great importance. The trouble is, you have no idea where it is. Or what it is. This does not go over well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CH WARNINGS: Violence, attempted sexual assault, torture. Please practice self care while reading. I originally posted this where the attempted assault was completed but honestly felt icky about it so we dialed it back a bit. I promise things will be ~spicy~ and ~morally corrupt~ in future chapters.

It is not the light that wakes you, but the cold. It cuts straight through your clothes and skin to your core. Your frayed thoughts begin to collect, inviting a splitting migraine. You groan and move to raise your hand to your head, but sharp metal digs into your wrist.

 _Restraints_ , you realize faintly. _Where—?_

Your eyelids, stiff with crust (or blood, you're not sure) peel apart. White light assaults your vision. You blink rapidly to draw the room into focus. Dread sinks its claws into you. 

The room is uncomfortably bright and claustrophobic. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all pale tile. There is no furniture save for the vertical metal slab you are shackled to. You look down the planes of your body, taking stock.

You're filthy, covered in blood. You're not sure how much of it is yours, but your wounds cannot be that bad. You're still breathing. 

For now. 

Your boots, jacket, and of course your weapons have been stripped, leaving you in your leggings and loose tunic.

Exposed. Vulnerable. Alone. 

You flinch in your shackles when the blast door opens. 

Standing in the frame is a man with flaming red hair. Judging by the pin on the lapel of his First Order uniform, he is a general. He steps into the interrogation room and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking up and down your body. Two stormtroopers follow him in and flank him, blasters ready. The door seals behind them.

There is a pause, sizzling with tension. 

“Can I help you?” you ask. Your voice is scarcely more than a whisper. You clear your throat and speak louder. “I was sleeping.”

“You were unconscious,” the general corrects.

 _Unconscious_ _, right._

Your thoughts reel back into the past, trying to piece together what the hell happened.

You were on a mission for General Organa. She had sent you to collect—something. She had not told you what. But it was important, and that was what mattered.

The last memory you had was landing on Er'kit with your comrade Tae, your dearest friend in the Resistance and the one you trusted most.

The twi'lek had stayed behind with the ship while you braved the desert winds to retrieve the artifact General Organa had sent them after. You were to meet a man with a yellow band around his left arm in a local tavern. He would give you a box that contained the artifact. You were not to look inside. 

But he never came. When, finally, you resolved to leave the tavern and regroup with Tae—

_A burst of pain at the back of your head. White light. Then, nothing._

“You took me from Er'kit,” you say aloud, more to yourself than the general. “What about—?”

You bite your tongue. They might not know about Tae. 

“Why am I here?” you ask instead. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Coy does not suit you,” the general replies. He starts toward you, hands still locked behind his back. You struggle not to shrink into the slab. “My name is General Hux, and you are going to tell me exactly where you stashed the wayfinder.”

You blink. “Huh?”

Somehow, you are not expecting it when he backhands you across the face. Stars crack in your vision as your head jerks to the side. Blood pools in your mouth, spilling over your lower lip. 

“Is that all you got?” you say through your teeth. 

“I will give you one chance, rebel scum,” Hux replies smoothly. “One chance to make your pathetic little life significantly less painful. Tell me where the wayfinder is, or—“

“Save the theatrics, Hugs,” you cut him off. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Hux smirks, and you know he was anticipating that answer. Perhaps even hoping for it.

“I am confident you will change your mind soon, child.” Hux grabs your chin with a gloved hand, turning your face left and right to examine it, tracing your lips with his thumb. “Though it does seem a shame to ruin such a pretty thing.”

_Now._

You lurch forward and sink your teeth into his leather clad thumb. Hux howls in pain, slamming his free fist into your temple. Your vision scatters, but you only bite down harder. 

Then, the stormtroopers are upon you, one yanking Hux backward, the other gripping you by the hair and forcing your head back into the slab. 

“Hurt her.” Hux practically spits the words.

Your head now immobilized, you flick your eyes toward the general. His face is purple with rage, and he cradles his wounded hand to his chest. Satisfaction cuts through you, but it is short lived.

“Do not contact me until you have what we need,” Hux continues. 

“Yes, sir,” the stormtroopers reply in unison. 

With one last scathing look at you, Hux storms from the interrogation room. The blast door seals behind him, and you are alone. 

Alone with two armed stormtroopers. Strapped to a table. In a torture chamber. 

“So,” you begin after a pause. “Any chance you two want to talk about this first?”

Neither answer, of course. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the one still gripping a fistful of your hair nod at his comrade. The other trooper marches past and rounds your vertical table. You flinch when you hear him begin to awaken some sort of machine. 

“Do you have a name?” you ask, twisting in vain to look the one steadying her head in the eye. Well, the mask. 

To your surprise his grip on you loosens ever so slightly. “FN-2187.” 

“Sucks for you. So, FN-2187, do you think maybe—“

He leans in, his modulated voice vibrating against your ear. “Answer the questions, stop with the sass, and you might survive the night.”

Before you can react, movement to your right draws your head around. FN-2187 releases you and steps back. The other trooper moves in front of you, a chrome droid about the height of an R2 unit rolling along at his side. A long mechanical arm tipped with a huge needle stems from its body.

_Fuck._

“You will tell us where you have hidden the wayfinder,” the second stormtrooper says. Even through the electronic distortion of his modulator, you can tell he is enjoying this. “You will beg to tell us.”

“Bite me,” you growl. 

The trooper presses a button on the droid. It hums, almost as if it were alive, and begins to roll toward you. You try to twist in your shackles, your eyes trained on that needle, but it is no use. You squeeze your eyes shut, shrinking into the table and—

“Ow.”

Your eyes open. You look down in time to see the needle retracting from your arm. A tiny glob of blood bubbles up on your skin. 

“I—is that it?”

No answer from FN-2187 or his comrade. A bewildered laugh bursts from your lips. 

Then, it begins. 

It starts as an itch. It blooms from the site of the injection, creeping along your veins, growing more intense with each thud of your heart. The itching morphs to burning. Searing. It works its way through your body, circling your heart, filling your head, stretching all the way to the very tips of your fingers and toes. 

“Does it sting?” the nameless trooper inquires patronizingly. 

A tortured moan escapes your lips. Now, your every nerve is blazing. You slam your eyes shut, afraid to look at your skin, afraid it will be blistering.

“There is an antidote, you know.”

A scream rips from your throat and you buck against the metal slab. The cuffs at your wrists and ankles dig into your exposed flesh. 

“I will give it to you if you tell us where you hid the wayfinder.”

”I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Your voice sounds foreign to your ears, warped by agony. “I—“

”We know General Organa sent you to retrieve it on Er’Kit,” FN-2187 says. Somehow, his voice sounds softer than that of his comrade. “Just tell us where you stashed the wayfinder and this will all be over.”

Understanding slams into you. This wayfinder, whatever it is, is the artifact you had been sent to collect. 

“You stupid fucking nerf herders,” you breathe. “The general never told me what I was collecting. You just _gave_ me information!”

You dissolve into a fit of giggles, hiccuping and shuddering as the poison continues to barrel through your veins.

The nameless stormtrooper does not find it amusing. He slams his armored fist into your nose, your stomach, your ribs. You choke on your own blood and laughter. 

“You hit like a bitch,” you wheeze. 

“You have one last chance,” he growls. “Tell us where the wayfinder is or—“

You spit out a wad of blood, saliva, and hatred. The stormtrooper curses as it splatters his pristine helmet.

“Even if I knew,” you say. “I would never tell.”

“You will regret that, stupid slut.”

”FN-3376,” FN-2187 warns.   
  
You let out a yelp as the cuffs at your wrists and ankles retract. You collapse, landing on your side. The cold tiles are a mercy on your searing skin, but the relief does not last long.   
  
FN-3376 tosses his blaster aside and kicks you in the stomach. The breath whooshes out of you as he rolls you onto your back with the toe of his boot, then straddles you. He fumbles with the waistband of his pants.   
  
“This will shut you up,” he hisses.

Terror knifes through you when he draws his length from his pants, already hard. You let out a whimper and writhe beneath him, but he just grips you harder with his legs. 

“FN-3367, this is unnecessary,” FN-2187 snaps from some other dimension. 

“Open your mouth,” FN-3376 orders you, ignoring his comrade. You clench your jaw, purse your lips, shake your head. His free hand flies to your throat, crushing your windpipe. “Open your fucking mouth or I swear to god I will kill you.” 

Your consciousness frays. Your eyelids flutter. Your muscles, still burning with poison, go lax. Death is prowling the halls of your mind, beckoning.

Then, the suffocating monster is ripped off you. You take a rattling breath, coughing and sputtering. 

“Enough! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“She is just Resistance scum! Who cares?” 

You blink in slow motion. Their argument fades out. A deep, ancient thrum bleeds in, washing over your bleeding mind. A single word passes through you, echoed by every cell in your body.   
  
_Fight_.   
  
Instinct seizes you. You roll onto your stomach, then struggle to your knees, panting.

Booted footsteps tap toward you. You look up at FN-3376. You see your face reflected in the black holes of his eye shields. Filthy, battered, bloodied, but not broken. Not yet.

“Ready for me, whore?”   
  
Without thinking, you slam both palms into his chest. A shockwave rips through the room, sending the stormtrooper flying into the blast door. The lights shatter, showering them in tiny shards of glass. The room plunges to black. Then, the red emergency lights ignite.   
  
Silence.   
  
You look down at your palms, then back at FN-3376. He is slumped against the door, unmoving.

A hand at your shoulder. You flinch. FN-2187 crouches beside you. 

“We have minutes before the cameras reset,” he mutters. “If they know you are Force sensitive, they will kill you.”   
  
“Force—sensitive?” you rasp. 

You choke on a scream when FN-2187 blasts FN-3376 in the shoulder. 

“He let you out of your restraints, you stole his blaster, you blasted him and shot out the lights, I stunned you. Got it?” 

“Will they not kill me anyway?” you whisper. “For trying to escape?” 

“Not if they think you know where the wayfinder is. Kylo Ren wants that piece of junk more than anything.” 

FN-2187 stands abruptly, his blaster pointed squarely at your chest. You stare at him, trying desperately to see through his mask to his eyes. 

“Why—?” you begin.

The blast door opens with a hiss. FN-3376 flops backward. 

A towering figure dressed in black fills the frame. Leather gloves and boots, a cowl and heavy cape—and a mask. A haunting, black metal mask.

Death radiates from him. 

“Master Ren,” FN-2187 intones, his voice perfectly flat. He shoves the muzzle of his blaster to your chest. “There was an incident.” 

“Evidently.”

Even through the deep modulator, Kylo Ren’s voice is cold.

”The prisoner—“

”Out,” Ren barks. “And take your pathetic comrade with you.” 

For the briefest infinity, the stormtrooper hesitates. Then, FN-2187 holsters his blaster and marches away without a backward glance. 

Kylo Ren steps into the room. The red light robes him, almost as if it belongs to him. It takes everything you have left not to shrink from him. Instead, you fixate on the black hole where his eyes should be.   
  
“I was mediating when I sensed it.” He halts before you and locks his hands behind his back. You have to crane your neck to look him in the face, still on your knees. “A fracture in the Force, on this very ship.” 

You do not respond. You cannot.

A scraping sound followed by a telltale hiss from somewhere behind Ren tells you FN-2187 and FN-3376 are gone. Relief and terror twist in your gut.   
  
Kylo Ren crouches before you and lifts a gloved hand to your face. You flinch away, but something roots you in place.

“Power,” Ren murmurs. “Untapped, unmastered, untamed.” 

“I am just a solider, a nobody,” you manage to whisper. “Oh gods, no, please—“

“Sleep.”

And oblivion drowns you.


End file.
